


Little Black Dress

by RuinsPlume



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Play, Angst, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Cross-Generation Relationship, Daddy Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 07:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13921953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuinsPlume/pseuds/RuinsPlume
Summary: Now that his hand has been marked with Umbridge's quill, Harry realises he's unable to lie tohimself. Especially when it comes to what he's been fantasizing about.





	Little Black Dress

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains underage crossgen. 
> 
> With thanks to Lqtraintracks for being such a stellar alpha, beta, and cheerleader from the very beginning. Thanks to Shaggydogstail for the last-minute polish and Britpick. And thanks to the 2018 Kinkfest mods, Writcraft and Kitty_fic, for their generosity, patience, and all around excellence in putting together this fest.

Harry had only had a few puffs of gillyweed before he realised it was a mistake—the drug’s effect was the opposite of what Luna had promised. While it was true that the back of his hand had stopped burning, the pain—which before had been restricted to where the words were carved into his skin—now radiated through his entire body.

_ I must not tell lies. _

The promise he had cut into the back of his hand had moved, carried by the gillyweed, into his bloodstream, his heart, his mind.

“Harry? Are you all right?”

He stood up, stumbling a little, and looked down at Luna. He wasn’t all right, but he couldn’t find the words to explain. So he simply nodded at her—and that was a lie. A stab of pain radiated through his chest and he nearly doubled over. “I just need some fresh air,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. Needles of heat burst across his tongue and throat and he realised he’d just told another lie. It wasn’t merely air he needed. He stumbled out of the deserted classroom and leaned against the stone wall of the corridor, his whole body aching now.  

What was the truth, then? 

He had scarcely finished asking himself the question when the familiar image arose in his mind, the one he tried not to think about. The one he thought about only at night in bed, when it was so dark and quiet that there was nothing he could distract himself with and so he gave into it, and then felt sick afterward.

He tried to push the thought away again, but it was too late--an entire scene was blossoming in his mind, and Harry, rendered defenceless by the drug and by the pain of the cursed words, let the scene continue. And bloody hell, it wasn’t only Sirius this time, it was—

No. He was NOT going to let himself imagine that. He was not. Absolutely not. The Sirius fantasy was bad enough without this new addition. Harry jumped away from the wall as if it had burned him and hurried down the corridor. Maybe he did need some air, after all.

It was nearly curfew, and the only students Harry met going down the stairs were heading the other way, up to the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw towers. But these days everyone kept their heads down when they walked, and no one questioned him or stopped him. Harry crossed the Great Hall, slipped out through the small side door and walked through the moonlight toward the Hogwarts gates. Despite the pain in his body, he felt less afraid than he had in weeks. What could Umbridge do to him that she hadn’t done already? He stood in the damp grass and pointed his wand, and one Alohomora later he was standing on the road to Hogsmeade. He was raising his arm and then the Knight Bus was there and he was climbing aboard. No one had stopped him.

And now he’s standing before the driver, who has just asked him, “Where to?” Harry opens and closes his mouth like a carp; this is a truth he can’t tell even though he wants to, because he’s not the Secret Keeper.

“Number  _ Thirteen _ Grimmauld Place,” he says instead, another lie that makes his throat and chest burn once more as the bus lurches forward, throwing Harry backward into the first seat opposite the driver.

Right, then. He’s really going there. He leans against the bus window and lets his eyes close. And the image is back again: Sirius, and himself, and he’s sitting on Sirius’s lap. And he’s naked, and then both Sirius and—

Harry shakes himself upright, another burst of pain flooding his his chest, so intensely this time that he gasps out loud before he can stop himself.

An old man on the opposite side of the aisle looks at him curiously, and Harry turns away, pressing his head once more against the cool window glass, everything in him contracting around the pain until he thinks he really might cry out in anguish if he doesn’t just—

Let himself think it.

All of it. Even the part he’s been keeping in the most recessed corner of his mind. The part about Remus. Which was not to say he’d been letting the part about Sirius run around in the front of his mind or anything, not to say he’d spent hours in class thinking  _I want to be sitting naked on Sirius’s lap while he wanks me_. Nothing like that, but he had at least known that he thought it. It’s what he’s been wanking to after all, ever since Dumbledore left him, left all of them, and Umbridge took over the castle. 

But the Remus part of the fantasy—well. That was a very secret, back-of-the-mind image that he hadn’t quite admitted to himself at all, not even at night beneath the covers.

The Knight Bus screeches to a halt, jarring him away from his thoughts, thank Merlin. Harry hurries off the bus and across the street and up the steps of Number Twelve. The house lets him right in, and it’s not until he’s standing in the silent hallway that he breathes out and realises he’s here, he’s done it, and the fist around his throat has loosened its grasp, that the pain in his chest has changed from pain into something closer to the flutter of pinpricks that he feels right before he goes flying.

He finds Sirius and Remus in the kitchen. Remus has his back to the doorway, a shirtless back, around which Sirius’s hands are wrapped. Sirius’s hands and bare feet are all that’s really visible; Remus has him pressed up against the counter, the rest of his body hidden behind Remus’s. Harry stares, fascinated, at the mouth-shaped rumple of scar tissue on Remus’s left shoulder, at the winter-pale skin of his back. At Sirius’s hands touching there, one between Remus’s shoulder blades and the other easing itself inside the waistband of Remus’s dark wool trousers. And Harry wants—he wants too much. He always wants too much and he can’t have any of it. And he tries not to want it, he does, and it’s as much to make himself stop wanting as for any other reason that he announces his presence by clearing his throat.

Remus whirls around in one fluid motion and Sirius lunges forward, both of them suddenly with wands in their hands, both wands pointed at Harry.

Harry stifles the urge to laugh, and a fresh stab of pain jolts through his guts. Is that another lie, then, to fight back his laughter? He’s not sure so he lets the laugh out after all, especially now that the already-absurd premise of his visit has just grown even more so now that he can see that Sirius isn’t wearing any trousers. Just a button-down shirt, one long enough to cover his bits, with his hairy legs sticking out from under the shirttails. Whereas Remus has got trousers but no shirt, so together they make a single dressed person, Harry thinks a little hysterically.

“Merlin, Harry,” Sirius says, lowering his wand. “Is everything all right?”

And at the same time, Remus says, “Harry, what’s wrong?”

“No,” Harry says to Sirius. “Everything,” he says to Remus. “I just...”

Is the weird combination of the gillyweed and Umbridge’s dark magic still working in him? If he lies again, will it hurt? What lie can he tell to check?

“It’s my birthday,” he says, and a ripple of pain flows from the tip of his tongue down his spine to the soles of his feet, which suddenly feel like they’re on fire. He winces, shifting back and forth on his toes, trying to dispel the sensation.

“Many happy returns of the day, then,” his godfather says, with a slow, happy grin as if it really is Harry’s birthday.

“Happy birthday,” Remus says dryly, his voice containing all the irony missing from Sirius’s. “I hadn’t realised it was July already. Now Harry, what’s—”

“It’s July somewhere,” Sirius interrupts. “So you’ll be wanting cake then.”

“Yes,” Harry begins, and then the pain is back, hard and sharp and arcing from his cock to the scar on his forehead, because it’s not cake he wants. He shakes his head to clear it, tries again. “I don’t... I... no. Not cake.” He takes a step toward Sirius, and then another. “It’s not cake I’ll be wanting. It’s—”  _ just you, _ he very nearly says to Sirius, but checks himself just as a single flare of pain shoots through his belly because it’s not just Sirius, is it? He closes his eyes to block out the image of Remus standing right in front of him, the hair on his naked chest just a little darker than the hair on his head, and his nipples the colour of his mouth, and his big hands hanging at his sides, hands that Harry—fuck, with his eyes closed it’s even worse, because now he sees the other thing he wants, the parts he’d tucked back back back in his brain, Professor Lupin, oh God, giving a LESSON— _No_ , Harry thinks, and hurt courses through him at the refusal. He opens his eyes and takes two more steps toward Sirius and falls into him, thinking _save me from that too_ as Sirius’s arms come around Harry and hold him, hold him up.

He presses his face to Sirius’s chest. Just like that. The top three buttons of Sirius’s shirt are open and Harry noses the cotton aside so that he can rest his cheek against Sirius’s chest, Sirius’s skin with its tattoos, its Sirius-scent, the maleness of him. Harry breathes it in, letting the full length of his body lean into Sirius until he can feel Sirius’s cock, still half-hard from Remus’s attentions, against his abdomen. He clutches the back of Sirius’s shirt as hard as he can so his eyes won’t look.

Then Remus’s hands are on Harry’s back. Saying, “Here now, Harry. _Harry_.”

Harry holds on, his hands fisted in Sirius’s Oxford. Sirius is holding him, one hand pressed between his shoulder blades just the way he’d held Remus. And then Remus is there too, close at Harry’s back. And then Sirius is putting his arms around Remus, drawing him in so that Harry is sandwiched between them. 

Remus sort of pushes back; Harry feels the three of them sway as Remus attempts to push Sirius off him, off Harry, and then stops. Everything stops when Remus goes still. Harry holds his breath. Harry in between these two men who love him. Love each other. Love him. 

Remus puts his arms around Sirius, Harry in the middle, and then goes still again. Quiet. Remus holding the history of this. 

And then Harry doesn’t hurt anymore.

Not while he’s being held by these two men who love him. The feeling it gives him is all he’s ever wanted. Accepted. Loved. Queer. Cared for. Safe. Allthosethingstogether.

And maybe Remus knows that. Maybe Remus simply can’t summon any argument to reason that away, not when it’s all pressed together like this. He bows his head, his mouth coming to rest on the top of Harry’s hair.

“Oh, Harry,” Remus says. A little sadly because Remus always is, a bit. 

But his breath in Harry’s hair. Is there. 

And then Sirius says, “Oh, yes.” And then: “It’s all right, Harry. It’s all right, it’s all right.”

And Harry buries his face in Sirius’s chest between the undone buttons of his shirt and he kisses, the skin, the thinness, the scent of Sirius there. He mouths and nuzzles. And then he noses across Sirius’s chest and finds a nipple and sucks it.

“ _Oh_ ,” Sirius says, the softest exhalation of surprise just above the rim of Harry’s ear. Sirius’s fingers thread through Harry’s hair then, cradling his head. He has let go of Remus but Remus stays right where he is, pressed close. And it’s Remus who strokes Harry’s arms, murmuring, “There, now. There.” 

Harry sucks that nipple and it goes straight to his cock, which is up against Sirius’s thigh. Harry bucks into it, then opens his zip and reaches inside his pants and holds himself. It’s right to do this. He’s safe here, he’s loved. He can, for once in his life, have what he wants. And what he wants is to suck that nipple and stroke himself and be petted. What he wants is for the sex of these two men who love him and love each other to envelop him. To make a magic ring with him at its center. 

And they do. Sirius leans forward over Harry's head and Harry hears the soft press of their mouths on each other while Harry presses up against his godfather. Remus presses closer in too, his cock pressing against Harry's arse, and Harry is stroking himself and sucking at Sirius’s nipple, and Sirius is thrusting his cock against Harry’s abdomen. Harry lets go of himself so he can grind back. Nothing hurts, not now. He’s feeling so good, so turned on, so... so _right_ , that he wants to say the one thing that will make it right all the way. Then he says it, he says—“Daddy.” Soft under his breath around Sirius’s nipple, against those few soft-coarse curling hairs.

For a moment, complete silence.

Then Remus kisses the top of Harry’s head and says, “Yes, Sirius, this.” 

“Yes,” Sirius answers, inclining his head, his mouth soft against Harry’s ear. “Yes, baby. Yes, Harry. Yes.”

“Sirius.” Remus’s voice. “Go and sit.” They all separate just for a moment, Sirius stepping back from Harry to move toward a kitchen chair, his bare thighs moving, his erect cock nosing out from under his shirt-tails, the flushed head darker than the rest of his skin, flushed dark and thick and hard, and Harry’s staring at him, and he wants.

“Harry,” Remus says.

And when Harry looks at him, to see if Remus is going to try to make him stop—Harry doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t think he  _ can _ stop, not now, not anymore —Remus simply meets his eyes. Remus’s worn face, eyes hazel-bright beneath his greying hair, is a face that knows things.

“It’s okay,” Remus says gently. He closes his eyes for a moment. “You can, Harry. Sit. On Sirius’s lap.”

Remus has considered all of it then, and decided, in the balance, that this is yes.

Harry, who would have tried to do it even without permission, does it with permission and loves Remus even more than he already does for giving it. Harry goes to sit on Sirius’s lap, but he’s still wearing his jeans, and it’s not right that way. Then Remus says, “Let me help you.” And it’s Professor Lupin’s hands helping him, hands that are bigger than Harry had realised, and warmer, and so sexy, because of the heat and the size and the way they are so certain about what they are doing, which is taking off Harry’s trainers and socks and then jeans and pants. And then Remus is saying, “Lift up your arms, that’s a boy,” as he helps Harry tug his tee shirt over his head.

And then Harry’s standing there naked, and he’s hard, and he’s not a boy, at least not where his cock is. He’s a man there, or something close to it. But when Remus lifts him up and sets him on Sirius’s lap and says, _there now_ he’s a baby too. And Sirius’s very erect cock and all his hair and his balls are right there, and he’s big, and it’s—fuck. It’s  _everything_. 

“You like your Daddy’s cock, baby?” Remus murmurs.

“Yes,” Harry answers. It’s such a relief to say it. To let the truth flood out of him for once. 

“You want Daddy to make you feel good?” Sirius asks.

“Yes,” Harry says again, but it comes out in a kind of whimper that makes his face burn, because it’s so little, that _yes_. It’s so bare, it’s so huge. Like he’s nothing else besides that one syllable. 

And then Remus is turning him again, lifting him and helping him to straddle Sirius, facing him. 

And then Sirius’s cock is pressing up against Harry’s cock and balls, and Harry’s putting his arms around Sirius and resting his head on Sirius’s shoulder. Sirius’s shirt is in the way, but Sirius shrugs once and then Remus is getting that shirt off too, so that Harry can have the thing he wants, which is body and skin and the heat of his Daddy all around him. Holding him and letting him have everything.

Remus moves to stand behind Sirius. He bends down until his eyes are level with Harry’s.

“Okay, baby?” he asks.

And Harry whimpers again, his mouth opening just like a baby, just like Remus said. He wants something in his mouth and Remus knows it.

Remus’s hands flutter to the button on his flies. Then hesitate. He watches Harry’s face, and then he cups himself through his trousers instead and gives Harry his other hand, he gives Harry his thumb.

Harry sucks it in, so big and warm on his tongue, and it would be embarrassing, it would be horrifying if it weren’t so exactly right. But it is right. And so he’s a baby. He sucks Remus’s thumb and pumps his hips, his cock thrusting against Sirius’s.

“Brave boy,” Sirius is murmuring. “Beautiful boy. Precious boy. Daddy’s boy. Love my boy.” And then Sirius has got his hand around both their cocks, and his hand is slick and perfect and so hot on this part of Harry. Not the cock part only but the inside part that just wants to suck up every bit of Sirius like oxygen. Harry bites down on Remus’s thumb, bucks his cock against his godfather’s. And they let him and they hold him and they call him _precious_ and _lovely_ and _baby_ and _mine_. 

_ There’s a pet, there’s a love, there. _

And Harry has never felt so much petted, so much loved, so much here. He’s going to come, and some tiny part of his mind flickers up in shame at it. But Remus’s fingers are stroking his cheek so gently, and Sirius’s fingers have found his nipple, and fuck, okay, that’s a thing too, and everything is _more Daddy, more, Daddy, more_. And Daddy is there, Daddy is more. Daddy is fucking Harry’s cock with his huge lovely hand, and Harry is coming all over them both and Daddy is saying, _yes, baby, yes, come for your daddy, that’s right, come on your daddy’s cock, oh my beautiful boy_. 

It’s something that, later, Harry can take out from the back of the closet where he keeps it and try on, as if he were a boy who once upon a time could have sneaked into his parents’ room and tried on his father’s dinner jacket, or, when no one was home, his mother’s black cocktail dress. It’s something that, when he’s feeling so bad, he can slide his body into and turn this way and that, looking down at himself and marveling at how it fits. It makes him look older, he thinks, and sexy. It makes him look like he knows what he’s doing, even when he doesn’t.

It makes him look...loved.

Yes, that’s it. Because he was, forever on that day. They dressed him in it, and they kissed him and held him and loved him. Trying to make up for everything. They couldn’t, of course. But still Harry takes it out and wears it, lets it hug him. He touches himself through it, yet his fingertips feel his own skin.

  
  
  



End file.
